


Time After Time

by Wheely_Jessi



Series: Pupcake Patchwork [4]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Introspection, Memories, No Dialogue, Old Age, One Shot, Post-Canon, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: A post-canon songfic set to the music of Cyndi Lauper'sTime After Time. Literally.26th August 2014: On a particularly symbolic evening for their relationship, Patsy reflects on the endurance of her connection with Delia, and how it has altered her perception of time.
Relationships: Delia Busby & Patsy Mount, Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Series: Pupcake Patchwork [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693711
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

> The fourth square in our collaborative quilt!
> 
> Music video is here: https://youtu.be/VdQY7BusJNU (finding a version of Lauper singing which had the lyrics clearly as well was _hard_ , so if you want them please ask)
> 
> Those of you who read my longer fics might recognise the date this one is set - but essentially it's something they've waited nigh on a lifetime to do, and the occurrence of it gives Patsy a lot of feelings. Also, character development.
> 
> (Note that Patsy thinks quite a bit about grief - and there's one instance of swearing, which I've been reassured is fine to rate as 'T', but if anyone wants me to make it 'M' I will! - but this is a good day that they've grown towards.)

_Always._

It’s a phrase – if something standardly written and spoken for centuries as a single word can properly be termed a “phrase” – with which Patsy Mount has had a perpetually ambivalent relationship. And that has only intensified over the five decades since her own clumsy usage of it in the winter of 1962. When she fumbled for an answer beneath that bridge; beneath her grief. Even all these years later, she can’t help cursing her thoughtlessness. Of every word she could possibly have picked, that was the one that slipped out. Admittedly sandwiched between two others, but that did little to soften its significance – especially in the situation. Forming, as it had, a third of what was only her second sentence after so long a separation. She of all people knew how fraught it felt to hear. How empty. How futile. And, frankly, how _fucking ridiculous_. Because it simply wasn’t true. A show, not of great, but _shoddy_ sentiment. No matter how noble one’s intentions. Utterly impossible. By very definition. One could never _always_ know anything. That was a fact of which _they_ were both acutely aware – _with_ which their different, yet paralleled, and equally painful experiences had led them to become intimately acquainted. Almost as intimately as they were (and _are_ ) with each other. Because it wasn’t only bereavement which could bring it home. It might also be brought by a brain injury. Yet she had still said it. Despite all that crucial context. And she’s felt awful ever since. Although it brought them back together.

But she understands, now, that it was all she _could_ say back then.

That she was clinging onto its claim of temporal certainty as tightly as the far more tangible suitcase handle cutting into the soft skin of her palm. The suitcase holding her last link, to the warmer nights which were a regular feature of her childhood but to which she had only recently begun to readjust, and to the people who had populated them. Of course that in itself had been hyperbole, as well, even on the most practical level. She had had a host of other things in storage since before her trip, more were fast following her back…and that was without counting the precious box stowed for safekeeping under her beloved brunette’s bed throughout her (then) immeasurable absence. Then there were the emotions. And the flashbacks to plague her if she dared drift towards suppression instead of dealing. If she were honest, in her heart of hearts she knew there was nothing capable of taking thoughts of them away. Even if she wished for it. She had been through it enough times that bereavement was – or at least seemed to be – almost as automatic, no, unconscious, as drawing breath multiple times each day. Not that that made it better. It actually, weirdly, made it worse. The loss of _another_ “always” was never lessened by the adjectival indefinite article. However determined one was with one’s determiners. _That_ was why she had needed the security of the suitcase. And the security of something she would never usually allow herself to say.

And, somehow, her sweetheart had understood. Perhaps it was that she had been so exasperated with her own efforts at an explanation that she had let touch talk. She thinks now she’d been fairly _sure_ it was that, then. That Delia was so surprised by the kiss that she herself had been lost for words. But it _wasn’t_ that. At all. In fact it was exactly the opposite. Because her best person had known her so well – been so synchronised with her inconsistent idiosyncrasies – that she had expected precisely such a response.

Apparently.

So she had said then, and so she still insists now.

Privately, Patsy isn’t entirely convinced. It’s not been anything close to plain sailing since she regained her land legs back then. Far from it. How could it have been, when they’d both had to wait and worry with nothing but faded black-and-white pictures, or the tick of the convent clock, for company? Without anything to while away their wistful hours except furtive glances at windows, wondering not just if the other was okay, but if they’d ever find out either way. It’s a good job they’ve had fifty years to work things through, really.

(Fifty-one, if she’s pedantic. Fifty-six if they count from training. Which they do.)

In that time, they’ve been caught up in circles more often than they’d care to admit. Confusion is nothing new when it comes to their connection. But, strangely, that’s sort of what _makes_ it theirs? Shared in any other circumstances than the stolen snatches than the parameters of their youth permitted, their secrets seem as though they might not have been so safe. Especially for her. She was so shrouded in shame from her earliest years that the opportunity to be more open from the off would probably have proved too much. It’s plausible, of course, that she’s fashioning a virtue from necessity (a nigh on reflexive response thanks to the lingering legacy of her name).

But there’s something about her musings ringing particularly true tonight, in the aftermath of their long-awaited marriage. Whilst she’d held back a slightly irritated smirk throughout proceedings, wishing periodically that propriety didn’t prohibit her from slapping the celebrant when she strayed off their carefully prepared script, now they’ve signed the register and the reception has arrived she feels rather more amenable to it all. For, as she stands in a suit, twirling her darling in her dream dress during their first dance to the words of Cyndi Lauper, she believes she could, just maybe, have realised what the bother is all about.

“Always”, of a kind, _does_ exist. And really, they’ve already had theirs. Against what’s felt like every odd. They’ve fallen and caught each other time after time over the past almost-sixty years. The next few won’t matter that much. Except they will. Because the difference is, now, everyone can know.

**Author's Note:**

> This aspect of their life together is something I've written _around_ a lot, but I've never actually written about the day. So when Chips' last line sparked this idea off in me I just went with it. Because we know _Delia's_ feelings about marriage but Patsy's aren't explicitly explored...and I think her past would make them complex, to put it mildly. Hopefully I've done the depth of their love and commitment justice. Also, what can I say, I really like Cyndi Lauper.
> 
> It was a great challenge to write to this prompt, and also (personally) to get it into 1000 words. If you'd like to join in, drop a line to echo7fic [at] gmail.com - we'd love to have you along for the ride, and it's helpful to have something to short and creative focus on in this strange time. Stay home (if possible) and stay safe <3
> 
> Our next contributor is Jojo_In_The_Shadows!


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